


Seat Assignment:  Open

by Saki101



Series: Other Experiments [45]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Pre-Slash, Slash, Travel, Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-05 02:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1802437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Hiatus, John didn't return from a holiday. His friends and family didn't report his absence to the police. Mycroft thought Lestrade might know why. At least that was the ostensible reason for his first visit to Lestade's office. </p><p>Months have passed and both Greg and Mycroft find themselves looking for evidence of something other than crime.</p><p>Excerpt:  Nine days of leisure stretched before Greg.  He hadn’t a reservation or a plan for a single hour of it.  He’d received a few winks and nudges when he’d said he hadn’t booked anything.  A week in bed with a like-minded partner would have been an excellent way to spend the time, but he didn’t have that lined up either.  He pushed a certain thought away as he slipped between the tourists and commuters and continued east along the Embankment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seat Assignment:  Open

**Author's Note:**

> This vacation story may be read alone.
> 
> It may also be read as part of a set of Mystrade stories, which includes another vacation story called [We Are Sorry For Any Inconvenience](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969344).

There was a breeze along the river, a bit of freshness, welcome on what passed for a hot day in London. Over the years, Greg had heard those from warmer and colder climates scoff at the complaints of Londoners about their weather. The scoffers had always sounded rather proud of their hardiness. Greg supposed they were on the underground about now. A packed bus growled past. He shook his head at it, pushed one of his sleeves higher and adjusted the jacket slung over his shoulder. He was in no hurry. Nine days of leisure stretched before him. He hadn’t a reservation or a plan for a single hour of it. He’d received a few winks and nudges when he’d said he hadn’t booked anything. A week in bed with a like-minded partner would have been an excellent way to spend the time, but he didn’t have that lined up either. He pushed a certain thought away as he slipped between the tourists and commuters and continued east along the Embankment. 

It had been two weeks since he had heard from Mycroft. A congratulatory text on the solving of a closed case from the '70s had been the last. Greg had been a boy when the mystery had been in the headlines. If he came into the room when his parents were talking about it, they would leave off mid-sentence. He probably wouldn’t have thought much about it if they hadn’t done that. The front-page photograph of a wrecked sailboat washed up on some Mediterranean shore had been accompanied by the conclusion that the controversial politician, his lover and their wife had been lost at sea. Turns out they had been mouldering together in Kensal Green, an incriminating bullet lodged between the wife’s third and fourth cervical vertebrae. 

Someone thrust a flyer in his hand. He noticed the words ‘free delivery’ and didn’t drop it in the bin by the traffic light. Across the street, a removal van hid half of the entrance to his building. Two men were shuffling across the pavement, a narrow, wooden crate between them. _Glass, mirror, table top_ , he thought in quick succession. His own move was still too vivid in his mind.

A blanket-wrapped sofa was approaching when he entered the lobby. He stepped aside, stopped at the reception desk. “Everything all right, Edwin?” he asked the older man behind the counter. Greg nodded at the men angling the sofa out the doors.

“Not bad,” Edwin replied. “Those blokes are running late though. Yesterday, the professor was complaining that they wouldn’t listen to her when she told them she had more stuff in her flat than meets the eye. Today, they had to call in re-enforcements.” Edwin nodded at the boxes being trundled off the lift, heavy ones judging by the flattened bottoms of the trolley’s wheels. “Some people don’t know how to look or to listen.”

Greg turned to the wall of post boxes. “Not everyone’s had forty years of practice in the Met,” Greg said, unlocking his box and pulling out several envelopes. “Any parcels?” 

Edwin shook his head. “Something late?”

“A couple things I ordered for Charlotte’s birthday,” Greg said, pushing all but one of the envelopes across the counter towards Edwin. “For Gertie.” 

Edwin slid them off the desk. A muffled whirr sounded from beneath it. Greg smiled. “Nearly everyone grins at that sound,” Edwin said.

“Such a good idea,” Greg replied and laughed. “Feels like we’ve struck a blow against the onslaught of junk mail.”

“It gets recycled and no one has to carry it back downstairs.”

“Absolutely,” Greg agreed, swiping his keys off the counter. “You going to strike another blow for green tomorrow in the bike ride?”

“You bet,” Edwin replied. “I’ll be bare as the day I was born at Hyde Park Corner once more.”

“…damn. Fuck.” Wiping his brow with his sleeve, one of the movers strode through the doors, his mutterings carrying across the quiet space. “Can you take a turn stacking those bloody things in the lorry? What the hell’s in them, rocks?” he asked his mate. 

The young man crouched by the lift stopped centring the bottom box on his trolley and looked up. “Some,” he teased, “mostly books though. You should’ve been here when we packed yesterday _and_ this morning. We kept finding ‘em, in cupboards, under the bed, one row behind another. Matt didn’t look very carefully when he made his estimate.” He patted the box holding the lift open. “Help me unload the rest in there and you go up. The air con’s on in the flat.” 

“Who’s leaving?” Greg asked. 

“Canadian teacher, lives right above you. Got a job offer in Paris,” Edwin said.

Greg tilted his head. “Well, if I had to leave London, I wouldn’t mind Paris.”

Edwin laughed. “You’ll never leave London. You’re too tangled up with the place.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Greg replied, tapping the surviving piece of post against his hand. “Spain was pretty nice last year.”

“Where you going next week?” Edwin asked.

“I didn’t make any plans,” Greg said.

Edwin shook a finger at Greg. “See,” he said.

“Hey, there’s a lot to do in London,” Greg replied. “I could go watch the bike ride for one.”

“That’s it, then,” the older mover said, nudging a box with his foot.

“Catch the lift,” Edwin said. “It takes them a while to load up there.”

“Hold the lift,” Greg called. “See you,” he said to Edwin and hurried across the lobby.

*** 

Greg glanced around the flat. He supposed he was checking it, but maybe he was just verifying that this was his life now. Two years had gone by so quickly. They’d been a hectic two years, but little of the events that marked them had taken place within these walls. The place still felt unlived in. Overhead the movers thumped and scraped. 

He opened the balcony doors. He preferred fresh air to the air con, although he had to admit on hot nights it was a blessing he had lived too long without. He touched the soil in the new pots Charlotte had planted for him. In one a jasmine was blooming. She knew he loved that smell. From the other, seedlings were reaching upwards, bright green heart-shaped leaves clinging to the railing, vivid against the black metal. The seeds were from their old garden. He’d been surprised when Charlotte said she’d saved a whole bag of them. Selling the house had lifted a burden from him and Meredith. Charlotte had been finishing university, hardly been in the old house for years. Foolishly perhaps, he hadn’t thought she might feel differently than them about getting rid of it. He curled a questing tendril around a paling. The vines would look pretty when the dark purple blossoms came out. _Maybe she just likes their colour_ , he thought and shook his head. He tried not to delude himself when he could help it. He fetched some water for the plants.

After a shower, a bottle of ale in hand, Greg stretched out on the sofa. He had nowhere he needed to go and nothing he needed to do. It was a good feeling. Above his head the noise had stopped. He closed his eyes and savoured the quiet. He heard the faint swosh of paper sliding over tile, possibly the movers were advertising their services. Stray people distributing flyers didn’t get past Edwin. Greg slept.

The scent of jasmine was strong when he awoke, the breeze from the balcony mild. Blearily, Greg headed for bed, nearly slipped on the paper in the hall. He shook it off his foot. He could tidy up in the morning. 

*** 

The ceiling shook. Greg sprang out of bed, whirled around. Footsteps and muffled voices sounded above him. He checked his alarm clock. Nine exactly. _Fair enough,_ Greg thought, sitting back down and rubbing his hand over his face. He supposed it was a team of cleaners. He doubted that whatever they had dropped still worked.

Greg sipped his espresso and chose a spot on the fridge for the photo Charlotte had sent. He positioned the group shot above her last postcard and next to Mycroft’s. Its corners were bent from falling off the fridge when he closed it too fast. He always put it back. Greg sighed. He had picked the room adjoining Mycroft’s in Richmond, had thought that said enough. He’d awoken to the news that Mycroft had been called away. It wasn’t that surprising, but in the months that followed there had only been the occasional lunch, the odd visit to drop off another book or to collect one Greg had texted to say he had finished reading. Perhaps Mycroft had simply been looking for information about Sherlock and John and had found it elsewhere. Still, a month never passed without some time spent with Mycroft, just enough to make Greg refrain from following up any other flirtations. Not that there had been so very many, but there had been a few. He headed towards the sitting room and slipped on the paper on the floor again.

“Ninja junk mail for chrissake,” Greg grumbled and picked it up. “Oh.” He turned the creamy envelope over. “That you aren’t.” 

The cup rattled in its saucer as he set it on the coffee table. He glared at it. “Steady,” he murmured to himself. “You’re not a boy anymore, Greg.” It didn’t seem to matter. His heart pounded. He sat down. He pushed the cup away and whispered, “Too much caffeine.” _First cup, Greg._ He turned the envelope over. Not a word on it, just thick, soft paper that felt almost like a bank note. Words weren’t really necessary, he supposed.

“OK, let’s see what you are, then,” Greg said and slid his finger beneath the lightly sealed flap. He pulled out the slick paper inside, stared at the hand-written red letters, the multiple copies held together by a card tab. He hadn’t seen an airline ticket like it in years. The space beneath ‘name of passenger’ was blank. He didn’t think that was legal. His eyes flickered over the other lines. _LCY. Time. 1200. Date._ Greg checked his watch. _Two hours._ He didn’t drink the rest of his coffee.

*** 

He touched his Oyster card to the yellow pad, followed the other commuters down the steps and through the doors. _Such a convenient airport_. The slightly battered suitcase that trailed behind him held the clothes from his trip to Spain. He hadn’t even thought about what to pack, just grabbed all of them. He hoped he was going somewhere warm. The destination of the flight was also blank and he hadn’t been able to find Flyaway Airlines on the internet.

He walked to the Information Desk. “Excuse me,” he said to the distracted staff member. 

She looked up from her computer and smiled. “How can I help?”

Greg took the envelope from his pocket. “I’m not sure where this airline’s counter is,” he said as he slid the ticket out and towards her.

She didn’t touch it, simply looked at the red, block letters, her smile fixed and bright. “Just a moment,” she said and pressed something under the counter.

Greg wondered if the envelope wasn’t from Mycroft and he had just walked into some trap for a fairly well-known DCI. He could always claim he was investigating it. The very large man in the very nice suit who came out of the door behind the counter and addressed him as sir, didn’t completely remove that doubt.

He nodded at the ticket. “Keep that with you, sir, and come with me.”

Greg tucked the ticket back in its envelope and into his jacket as requested. The man was by his side when he had. “Just through here," he said and walked down a side corridor in the opposite direction from the flow of other passengers.

Greg followed, allowed his guide to place his case on the conveyer belt of the security scanner when requested. The guide carried the case after that, down stairs and around bends. At a glass door, they paused. His guide murmured to the woman at a little podium by the door. Her brows lifted only slightly. She nodded and pushed a button. The door clicked. The guide held it open for Greg. They were on the tarmac, two black Jaguars idling nearby. Greg’s case disappeared into the boot of the one with a driver standing by an open rear door.

“Have a good flight, sir,” the guide said, without looking directly at Greg. The man turned back towards the terminal. 

The driver motioned towards the door. Greg took a quick look inside before he slid in. It was empty.

The jet beside which the car stopped was white. Greg counted the windows: five. The driver got out and opened the rear door. It was only a few steps to the stairs. One attendant stood at their foot. Greg could see a silhouette in the cockpit. The boot slammed. The driver handed Greg’s case to the attendant and motioned towards the stairs. Greg mounted the steps and ducked inside. Like that restaurant in the City where he and Mycroft had dined, it was an interior with which he wasn’t familiar. A snowy-haired woman in uniform indicated a seat that was more like an armchair than any airline seat Greg had ever occupied. The colour of its leather matched her hair. 

“Do make yourself comfortable, Inspector Lestrade,” she said in tones that suggested that any inclination to be uncooperative on his part would not be wise.

He found himself saying, “Yes, ma’am,” as he sat.

“Good,” she replied, watching him, and Greg thought he might be awarded a house point for just how comfortable he made himself in the plush seat.

“The others will be along in a couple minutes,” she continued. He looked up. A creamy envelope had materialised in her hand whilst Greg had been fiddling with the brass levers on his seat. “Read this before they do. I’ll collect it when you are done.”

Clearly, he would have to do more to earn the house point. Greg took the unsealed envelope, unfolded the single sheet of paper inside and read the typewritten paragraph on it: 

DCI Lestrade (if asked) attending an Interpol conference in Europe (specific location undisclosed) as a last minute replacement for an indisposed superior. You will not be disembarking with your fellow passengers in Paris for the General Conference on Weights and Measures. The countries represented by the other passengers do not agree with one another on several points on the agenda. Conversation is best avoided. If unavoidable, be as brief and bland as possible. 

As billets-doux went it was original, Greg thought, unless, of course, he _was_ going to an Interpol conference instead of an indisposed superior. As far as the delegates were concerned, he knew people could argue over anything. He folded the paper and slipped it back into its envelope. It was whisked away and a plastic flute of champagne substituted for it. Greg smiled. _More like it._

*** 

The lights of Paris fell away as the small plane turned south. No further envelopes were delivered to him, but there had been a number of glasses of champagne and a long series of tiny hors d’oeuvres which Greg suspected had come on board in Paris. Outside the little windows, the light began to fade and Greg was shown how to put the seat all the way back and the footrest all the way up and handed a light blanket and a little pillow. The cabin lights were dimmed and between the food and the champagne and the drone of the engines, he drifted off to sleep somewhere over the Mediterranean.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but your seat needs to be in an upright position for landing, sir.” Greg opened one eye and saw the good-natured face of the attendant from the bottom of the stairs leaning solicitously over him. “You must have been very tired,” he continued as he pushed down on the little brass lever in the arm of the seat. “Hardly anyone sleeps the whole way.” He crouched down to lower the footrest. “There you go.” Greg blinked several times and rubbed his hand over his face. “Oh, just a minute, I have something for that,” the cheery fellow said and reached for something on the seat behind Greg. “There you go.” He handed Greg a warm, damp flannel folded like a rosette. “Just the thing for waking up.” 

Greg wiped his face and hands. “Thank you…” He squinted at the name badge, but the light was too dim. 

“Oh,” the young man said, smiling even more broadly and tapping the badge. “I’m Arthur. I’d get you a coffee, but we don’t have time. The Captain’s about to begin the descent.” Arthur said the word ‘captain’ in a reverent tone.

Greg smiled and handed back the cloth. “Well, thank you, Arthur. And who’s our captain? Merlin?”

“No, Martin,” Arthur said, then he grinned. “I see. I watched that. Merlin and Arthur. Well, it is like magic to fly an airplane and Martin is very, very good at it. I must tell him you said that. I think he’ll like it.” He stood up. “And the facilities are at the back and there’s just time if you’d like to use them.”

“Good idea,” Greg said, pushing the blanket aside and unbuckling his seat belt.

“I do have little cartons of fresh orange juice though. You could have one of those,” Arthur said.

“Orange juice would be nice,” Greg replied.

*** 

The full moon was low in the sky as the plane descended. Greg could see its reflection on the water. There were blue lights along a landing strip, a few brighter lights nearby and a small cluster of white lights a mile or two away. Other than those the vista was dark. 

The landing was very smooth. The plane taxied close to the lights that turned out to be a small building, another small jet and two waiting cars.

“Here we are, sir,” Arthur exclaimed as he bounded up. The door was open and the stairs lowered by the time Greg was out of his seat and had his jacket on. Arthur followed him down the steps and handed Greg’s case to the driver standing beside an open car door. “Have a lovely stay, sir,” Arthur said. “We hope you come back.”

Greg cocked his head and said, “Me, too.” He slid into the car. Immigration formalities were apparently optional.

“Arthur, what have you done with the key to the storage cabinet?” the snowy-haired woman called from the top of the stairs.

Arthur patted his pockets. “I’ve got it, Mum,” he said scurrying up the steps.

The door to the car closed. Through the tinted glass, Greg saw a tall man in uniform appear next to Mum. Greg leaned closer to the window. Something about the man was very familiar, but it was hard to tell with the hat and the shadows. The car pulled away.

*** 

The headlamps illuminated the trunks of coconut palms along the narrow road. Around one curve their light caught the side of two boats bobbing at the end of a short pier. Around another they came to the cluster of lights Greg had seen from the plane. 

The car came to a stop by a low house. There were pairs of lanterns at the bottom and the top of a short flight of steps leading up to a veranda that appeared to wrap around the building. Flowering vines curled around its posts and hung from its roof. Through a screen door a light could be seen from an inner room. The windows along the veranda were dark.

The driver set down Greg’s case and bid him good-night. Greg listened to the scrunch of his retreating footsteps. When the car reached the road, its headlamps lit up a couple outbuildings as it turned back the way they had come. The growl of its engine faded. Insects buzzed around the lanterns. Greg stood at the edge of the porch. The moon hung just above a calm sea. He leaned over the railing. He could hear the rhythm of the surf. Whatever bloomed along the veranda had a faint, spicy fragrance.

The screen door creaked. “There are sharks in the sea,” Mycroft said. “If you were considering a moonlit swim, the pool is much safer.”

“Good to know,” Greg said, without turning. “Where am I?”

“Astove Island in the Seychelles,” Mycroft replied.

“Lot of islands in the Seychelles?” Greg asked.

“One hundred and fifty-five,” Mycroft answered. “Some of them uninhabited except for the birds.”

Greg nodded. “A few of my mates have gone on holiday to the Seychelles.” The moon had dipped below the horizon. “I think they must have gone to some of the other islands.”

“Most likely,” Mycroft agreed.

“So why am I here?” Greg asked.

“A Law of the Sea consultation concluded last night, a week ahead of schedule,” Mycroft said.

“Did you have something to do with that?” Greg asked.

“I might have been helpful in bringing about accord on a few matters that had seemed particularly contentious.”

“Congratulations,” Greg said.

“My contribution might not have been noticed by many of the delegates,” Mycroft said.

“It’s how you like to work,” Greg replied.

“Yes.” Mycroft leaned against the railing a metre or so away.

“Doesn’t answer my question though.”

“You haven’t had a holiday in nearly a year,” Mycroft said.

Greg suppressed a smile at the calculation. “I don’t believe you have either.”

“You’d be correct,” Mycroft replied. “And since the island has been reserved for another week it seemed like a good time.”

Greg glanced at Mycroft. He was ghostly in the moonlight. “Haven’t slept much in the past two weeks.”

“One doesn’t at these things. There’s always some fire to put out, some ruffled feathers to smooth.”

“So you’re taking a holiday now?”

“The delegates leave tomorrow morning,” Mycroft explained. “The rest of the staff the day after. And since you had a week’s leave…”

Greg watched the moon sink lower.

“I thought you might enjoy a change of scene, too.”

“I’d rather not be eaten by sharks,” Greg said.

“Diving in the lagoon is much less dangerous and there’s the pool for swimming,” Mycroft said.

“It was an unusual form of invitation,” Greg said.

“You came.”

“I did,” Greg agreed. _And I don’t have any knife wounds this time._ “Although I was a little apprehensive at the airport with the large, silent type leading me through the back-door security.”

“Was that the first you paused to consider your decision.”

“It was,” Greg replied. _I spend a lot of time considering my decision in Richmond though. Is that what you’re talking about, Mycroft?_

The sea turned to silver for a moment before the moon disappeared.

“Come inside,” Mycroft said. He walked back to the door and held it open. “My suite has an excellent view.” 

Greg turned away from the sea and the sky, picked up his case and stepped through the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	2. Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starlight. Conversation. Surveillance tapes.
> 
> Excerpt: The room at the top of the stairs was dominated by a skylight, a huge oval of star-scattered heavens. By the faint light from the landing, Greg saw a few outlines of furniture and more sky out a series of arched windows making up one wall. It didn’t seem very secure, not at all suited to Mycroft. There was a click and the light disappeared, the stars coming into sharper focus.

The room at the top of the stairs was dominated by a skylight, a huge oval of star-scattered heavens. By the faint light from the landing, Greg saw a few outlines of furniture and more sky out a series of arched windows making up one wall. It didn’t seem very secure, not at all suited to Mycroft. There was a click and the light disappeared, the stars coming into sharper focus. Greg followed the scent of the sea towards an open window. There seemed to be a terrace beyond. It was hard to see.

“Doesn’t it make you ill at ease?” Greg asked.

“The perimeter of the island is a security measure in itself. The reefs beyond render sea landings difficult except in the calmest weather by the most experienced mariners. There are many wrecks beneath the waters,” Mycroft replied, coming closer as he spoke. 

“As well as sharks,” Greg added. He set his bag down, nudged it aside with a foot and stepped out onto the terrace.

“As well as sharks.” Mycroft repeated.

Greg shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back. “Never seen some of these constellations.” 

“It’s a surprise, the southern sky,” Mycroft said.

Greg craned his neck in a different direction, took a step further away from the doors.

“There are no railings at the edge,” Mycroft said.

“Health and safety,” Greg chided, head still thrown back.

“Well, only I’ve been staying up here.”

Greg’s eyes remained on the sky. “And you’re used to living where safety measures fail.”

“It’s why I have multiple ones,” Mycroft said.

Greg glanced in Mycroft’s direction; he was only a shadow. Greg’s gaze returned to the stars.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “In the postmodern world, physicality so often precedes declarations of intent,” he said.

Greg waited. _I got on the aeroplane. Still your turn, Mycroft._

“I believe I presumed,” Mycroft continued. “The physical interest had seemed clear.” 

Greg could hear that Mycroft hadn’t moved.

Mycroft’s voice grew quieter. “I might have misjudged.”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes following the curve of the sky down to the black line of the horizon. “How likely is that?”

“It’s been known to happen,” Mycroft said.

Greg heard the grit of sand underfoot when Mycroft took a step forward. 

“You did not wish to act,” Mycroft said.

“Why, after all the years you've known me? I certainly haven’t changed for the better,” Greg said and realised that wasn’t totally true.

There was a tap on his arm, a lit tablet in Mycroft’s hand. “Come inside and take a careful look at that,” Mycroft said, handing the device to Greg.

 

Mycroft slid the door to the roof shut behind them. Greg didn’t bother to look for a place to sit. He stared at the screen in his hand. There was a crowd scene, somewhere inside, people with briefcases and suitcases rushing forward. It was a short loop. In the background there were turnstiles. Greg scanned for more details, caught part of a sign on a kiosk. He nodded to himself. _Paddington_. He checked the top and bottom of the screen, found the date stamp. _Last year. After Spain._ Greg searched the faces in quadrants. “Am I looking for myself in this mob?” he asked.

“No.” Glass clinked lightly from across the room. "Ice?" 

"No, thanks." Greg started again. The resolution was somewhat better than standard CCTV footage. _Enhanced._ His eyes kept returning to the kiosk. It was the only steady image in the centre of the screen. Most of the people were moving rapidly, heads often down, long hair or hats obscuring profiles or faces turned completely away from the camera. _Maybe not a face, then._ Greg shifted his gaze to the top corner and worked his way down and across. _A silhouette. Part of another._ He brought the tablet closer to his face, let the scene repeat a couple more times. He smiled. Sherlock’s hair was longer than he’d ever seen it and lighter, his coat was different, but the length of the stride was familiar. By his side, part of another figure was visible, a shorter one. _There you are, John._ And then they were gone behind the kiosk. The camera did not pick them up again on the other side. 

The screen tinted Greg’s face blue. “It’s them, isn’t it?” 

Mycroft nodded, took a glass in each hand.

“You’ve known for months, then,” Greg said. Fever dreams and firelit conversations flitted through his mind with their own form of date stamps.

“I knew they were alive in September, which was enough for a while,” Mycroft said. “Sherlock was able to elude me once he took John on his neverending holiday and subsequent to that glimpse at Paddington as well.”

Greg grinned.

“He’s one of the very, _very_ few who can,” Mycroft clarified, holding a glass out towards Greg. 

Greg’s hand closed around the whiskey. Mycroft’s fingers were nearly as cool as the glass. “I’m sure,” Greg said, smile gone. “And that’s why you wanted to keep an eye on me.” 

“It’s why I came to your office last summer, yes. You’ve always been helpful with regard to his safety. You trusted that I had his best interests at heart.” 

Greg took a sip of scotch. The tablet’s screen went dark. 

“Sherlock’s fall changed your view. And between the two of us, you would be loyal to him, and to John,” Mycroft continued. 

Greg’s thumb skimmed over the tablet’s screen, tilted it towards Mycroft. He was staring at the floor. 

“It isn’t blind, your loyalty. I admire that,” Mycroft said, looking up, face wan in the grey light. “Even if I must demand blind loyalty professionally.” He exhaled, eyebrows raising and stepped forward, arm outstretched. “There’s something else.”

The tablet was out of Greg’s hand and back in it in an instant, the screen bright, a silver gleam to one side. Mycroft’s finger arched over the top of the device and tapped. He withdrew. There was motion on the screen.

Greg peered. There was less detail than in the other clip. The camera was closer. The gleam disappeared. The brightness dimmed, returned fragmented. He shifted the angle of the tablet. _Droplets on the lens._ Total darkness was followed by a triangle of light at the bottom of the frame, rising to bisect it, an outline against the brightness, an arm, a bent elbow, a bowed head. Greg glanced in Mycroft’s direction. He had returned to the shadows.

The screen was blurred, water sheeting over the lens, streaks of light on a reflective background. _A sunny skylight. Tiled walls. Shower._ His mind filled in unclear details from the context. Head thrown back, elbows out. _Shampooing short hair._ A hand raised, adjusting the shower head. Sparkles of light. Figure turning, arching backwards. Shafts of sunlight across the chest. Face obscured by an arm. _Male subject. Not strongly muscled._ Camera tilting downwards. _Live surveillance._ Greg drew in a breath. _A bit of extra weight around the middle. Lather sliding with the water. Skin lighter below the waist. Aroused male subject. Strong thighs._ Greg wished he’d taken his jacket off. A click, a hum, from above, a draft of cool air. His eyes stayed on the small screen where hands slid down the chest to the thighs, moved off screen, returned cupped, lathered over the belly, change of stance, hands between the thighs, leg raised, knee, foot, head coming into view, into the sunlight. The heat shot through Greg. He looked across the room.

“I thought you should know,” Mycroft said.

“Spain,” Greg said and glanced around to find the nearest chair. He sat, took a drink of the scotch. The light from the tablet flickered across his face. He didn’t look down at the scene. He knew what happened next. “I got a good tan there.” 

“I thought about it fading,” Mycroft said. “There was no trace of it by the time you were stabbed.”

“You think about that much? Calculate the days?” Greg asked. He finished his whiskey.

“Yes.”

“Christ.” Greg met Mycroft’s gaze across the room. “What am I supposed to make of that?”

“I’ve watched you. And I know that I don’t know you. It’s unsettling,” Mycroft replied. “I’m accustomed to knowing.”

Greg held up his glass. “You got more?”

Mycroft reached behind him for the bottle, came across the room with it.

“Your mystery postcard’s still on my fridge,” Greg said as Mycroft refilled his glass.

“I know.”

“Give me an instance of what you don’t know about me?” Greg asked.

“Why you came today,” Mycroft replied. He sat on the ottoman by Greg’s chair, set the bottle on the floor.

“Because you asked,” Greg supplied. “At least I was fairly sure it was you asking.”

“Could it be as simple as that?” Mycroft said.

“Could be,” Greg replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


End file.
